


Five The Hard Way

by glasgow_blue



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-14
Updated: 2004-09-14
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasgow_blue/pseuds/glasgow_blue





	

For the [](http://lotrpschallenge.livejournal.com/profile)[**lotrpschallenge**](http://lotrpschallenge.livejournal.com/) [#22](http://www.livejournal.com/community/lotrpschallenge/21785.html). Unbetaed. Mea-culpa. Except, not really.

 

Title: Five The Hard Way  
Rating: G, for general audiences  
Word Count: 500, total  
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.  
Archive: Please ask.

i.

 

Viggo sent a case of wine for the occasion and they'd done it more than justice in his honor. Orlando lost count after the fourth bottle, busy with toasts and laughter and the bloom of grapes on his tongue. He remembers the clinking of glasses. He remembers the smell of fresh-baked bread.

He remembers getting up to show them a dance he learned in Morocco and stumbling over Elijah's feet. Or possibly his own. He remembers being here on the brick stairs outside of Billy's flat and feeling the sound of laughter sink into his chest and warm his bones.

 

ii.

 

Elijah bounds down the steps, unable to suppress his glee. He's drunk. Very much so. And he's got a hell of a nicotine buzz, too. Full belly, full wallet, jobs lined up until the end of time.

His ribs hurt from laughing. His foot's gonna bruise from Orlando's stellar dance moves. But he doesn't care. Glasgow instead of Wellington. Separate ways instead of another night like this next weekend. Doesn't matter.

Tonight, it's perfect. Tonight, the rules of man and time did not apply. Tonight, he clutches the iron railing and pirouettes down the stairs. Tonight he's no one special.

 

iii.

 

When they're together like this, his first name gets dropped and he is simply Astin. It's a hold-over from filming and Sean doesn't mind. He rather likes it, in fact. Astin, you wanker. Astin, pass the bottle. Astin, you're a real mate. There's a ring and a rhythm and an easy sense of belonging.

He stops at the top of the stairs and breathes in deeply, closing his eyes. Wet bricks and cigarette smoke, wind in the trees and laughter echoing all around. The sun will be up in an hour or two.

He's good. He's grounded. He's whole again.

 

 

iv.

 

Inside, Dom nudges an empty wine bottle with his left toe and stretches out, sinking into the couch. He can hear them out on the stairs, laughter dripping from the bricks, bouncing off trees and buildings. It's been a long time. A long time since they ate and drank their fill and laughed until the ceiling bulged with the effort of containment.

Nights like these replenish the source of it all, he thinks. Like a well after a good rain. They arrive self-possessed and leave brimming with mirth, barely able to contain the joy. Healed. Complete. Ready. Just like before.

 

v.

 

The kitchen--the whole flat, actually -- is littered with the remnants of their meal. Billy stacks plates, rinses glasses, lines up forks in neat rows in the sink. Every bit of cutlery, every dish, every glass he owns saw use tonight and, finally, the place feels like home.

He can see the top of Dom's head over the back of the couch, the toes of his sneakers stretched out across the coffee table and tapping in time with Van Morrison on the stereo.

It's good. Right. The pieces fit. A mosaic instead of just a collection of many-colored tiles.

 

 

 

 

ETA 10/21/04: Dig me, I won.

 

 


End file.
